reluctantly and hesitatingly, but without question
or complaint—had she not the faculty of obedience
to perfection?—went too. Down fields, across
valleys, white, flower-strewn—that was how she
would have painted it. The hills were austere.
It was rocky; it was steep. The waves sounded
hoarse on the stones beneath. They went, the
three of them together, Mrs. Ramsay walking
rather fast in front, as if she expected to meet
some one round the corner.
Suddenly the window at which she was looking
was whitened by some light stuff behind it. At
last then somebody had come into the drawing-
room; somebody was sitting in the chair. For
Heaven's sake, she prayed, let them sit still there
and not come floundering out to talk to her.
Mercifully, whoever it was stayed still inside;
had settled by some stroke of luck so as to throw
an odd-shaped triangular shadow over the step.
It altered the composition of the picture a little.
It was interesting. It might be useful. Her
mood was coming back to her. One must keep
on looking without for a second relaxing the
intensity of emotion, the determination not to be
put off, not to be bamboozled. One must hold
the scene—so—in a vice and let nothing come in
and spoil it. One wanted, she thought, dipping
her brush deliberately, to be on a level with